


It was rare (I was there)

by selflessbellamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst - Always angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort (lots of that shit), Longing, Mentions of Cancer, Mild Smut, Pre and Post break-up, The Author Regrets Nothing, Waiter!Bellamy, artist!Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6332830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selflessbellamy/pseuds/selflessbellamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her relationship with Bellamy begins and ends with a scarf...</p>
<p>"The far too vivid memories that are embedded into her brain have her wondering whether it will smell like him; the spicy cologne which clung to his clothes, his favorite dark blue sweater, or even cigarette smoke, if the idiot hasn’t finally made the decision to quit."</p>
<p>- 4 years later, Clarke can no longer hide what she left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It was rare (I was there)

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to Lana, who has been nothing but amazingly supportive throughout the long writing-process of this fic. Without her kind words, I doubt that I would have finished this monster.

Her relationship with Bellamy begins and ends with a scarf; the one her grandmother so kindly knitted for her when she was seven, a child busily complaining about how cold it was in North Carolina compared to California. Frankly, Clarke had lost all hope of ever getting it back, because she’d never felt brave enough to contact him - but here she is, returning from the post office carrying a small package in which she knows it is. She’d been able to tell as soon as it was handed to her, the brown wrapping paper crackling at her touch, yet the expected relief was forgotten in the heavy mist of disappointment - _Why?_ Exhaling into the freezing November air, Clarke frantically attempts to replace the only answer to that question she can think of, with something else. However, much to her dismay, she quickly comes to realize that it would not be possible, not if her life depended on it, because the far too vivid memories embedded into her brain have her wondering whether it will smell like him; the spicy cologne which clung to his clothes, his favorite dark blue sweater, or even cigarette smoke, if the idiot hasn’t finally made the decision to quit.

Clarke Griffin now lives in a shitty apartment complex in downtown Charlotte; its dark, brick walls smeared with the kind of graffiti that not even an independent artist like her would dare to call creative - every 20 minutes, when the train arrives at the station right next to it, the whole building wobbles to the point where she fears that the old ceiling will simply come crashing down.

Living with her is the badass mechanic-to-be Raven Reyes, who wakes up at 6 fucking A.M. each morning and consumes more Hersey chocolate bars a month than an entire class of fourth graders. Not to mention that she is the greatest roommate on planet Earth for leaving Clarke the cold pizza to eat for breakfast every Saturday. 

Nothing is valued more in their household than a healthy lifestyle.

 

After completing the struggle of prying her squeaky front door open, Clarke steps inside, leaving the package on the kitchen counter as she distracts herself yet again by making a cup of coffee. The dinner table is covered in sheets of Raven’s recently printed physics equations and Clarke’s charcoal “doodles” that she hopes she’ll be able to sell on her website - the one that Raven created for her (“Come on, Griffin. Every budding artist _needs_ a freakin’ website.”).

Blowing on her coffee, Clarke finds herself staring at the raindrops racing on the windowpane while her thoughts drift to the unopened package she knows is behind her, most likely burning a hole in the counter. But not even that is worth stopping, not for him anyway. So instead, she fumbles among the drawings to find a lone piece of blank paper on which she begins to draw.

In the many years Clarke has indulged in the world of art, every thought occupying her mind and dream stuffing her heart has always guided her hand, spilled onto canvases, which is probably why she slowly notices how the constellation of freckles across his cheeks begin dusting the paper. And before she can think to stop, his mouth has taken form, spreading into the wide, boyish grin she fell so easily in love with. His dark eyes lightened up by sparks, and the messy curls she used to run her fingers through while he nipped playfully at her bottom lip. 

She hates thinking of him, but the fact doesn’t hinter her from working on the portrait for hours. Frankly, not until she hears the familiar clinking of Raven’s keys being thrown carelessly into the glass bowl by the front door, Clarke looks up, casting a look at the sky outside, which to her surprise is now dressed in dark blue velvet and speckled with millions of shining stars. 

“Who is that?” honestly, the sound of Raven’s voice nearly startles her. Upon a couple seconds, though, she twists her head to look at her roommate who is eyeing the drawing curiously with one of her perfect eyebrows raised. Because of that Clarke is tempted to lie for a moment, but she knows better after all, so therefore she decides on telling _a part (the juiciest)_ of the truth, “it’s this guy you can thank for making sure that your pathetic roommate isn’t still a virgin.” 

At that, Raven’s eyes widen just enough for Clarke to feel hopeful that she won’t ask any more questions about him. Then again, they have been living together for almost five months and Clarke should’ve predicted that her friend would only snap the picture from the table surface to study it more closely. “Very hot indeed,” she concludes after two seconds, but not without adding, her voice full of pride: “You fucked this guy, Griffin?” and ending it with a whistle. 

Clarke has to hold herself back from wincing. “No, not _fucked._ We, well…” As soon as she feels blood rush to her cheeks, she clears her throat, choosing to not finish the sentence. If there’s anything she doesn’t need to think about right now, with that infamous package still unopened, it’s _that_.

“Well what?” 

_Damn it, Reyes. Damn you for leaving sticky notes with inappropriate jokes on the fridge and for asking even more inappropriate questions._

“He was very nice to me,” unsurprisingly, the words are a murmur, her way of asking someone to shut up without actually having to be rude enough to say it. Raven, on the other hand, happens to be a significantly more blunt person, all rocket fuel and thunder, thick-skinned to hide the storm. The silence between them continues while Clarke tries in earnest not to look over her shoulder at the facial expression she knows Raven has on her face in this instant: there’s no way to accurately describe it other than it’s one capable of getting the worst of truths out of people, even at times where they would much rather be closed oysters.

In the end, in attempt to avoid the inevitable, Clarke stands up and leaves the room to take a hot, well-deserved shower.

But memories of him are not so easily rinsed away.

 

* * *

 

He keeps her awake, too. As minutes effortlessly pass, letting time tick away, she feels the warmth of his body next to her, his gentle hands buried in the damp, tangled waves of her hair, his face too near until her breath gets stuck in her throat, denied its exit by a lump.

Blinking away the teardrops at the corners of her eyes, Clarke wraps herself in a blanket and stands up, threading into the living room, which is bathed in blue light from the television. With a bowl of popcorn between her palms, Raven looks up at her, noticing her expression and sighs: “There is Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.” 

_Chocolate Therapy_ \- Usually, Clarke would go for a coffee flavor, but right now this is perfect. As soon as she sits down, she puts a big spoonful of the ice cream in her mouth, and while it might nearly give her the worst case of brain freeze in history, it still works as a desperate way of getting herself to shut up. It’s only temporary, though, because the more she eats, the heavier her heart becomes until she cannot handle its weight in her chest anymore.

“I have to tell you about him. The guy I drew.”

 

* * *

 

**_4 years earlier - Graham, NC_ **

 

The scent of pumpkin spice and sugar hangs in the air like the raindrops clinging to the window for dear life. With a taste of warm, black coffee on her tongue, Clarke reaches into her purse to break out her favorite set of charcoal (she bought this a little more than a month ago and all of the colors are already worn to bits). By now she spends all of her afternoon hours at the diner, because it has the atmosphere she needs to concentrate; casual and comfortable, not to mention that they make the best strawberry milkshake in North Carolina and serve caffeine for a couple of cents.

Usually, she stays there until her fingertips are stained with pastels and browns, knowing she should probably be home instead, watching television and playing a stereotypical, bored eighteen year old. However, it doesn’t sound very appealing. It never has, and it probably never will - sue her for being the daughter of an artist. Clarke remembers spending her sick-days from elementary and middle school in her father’s studio, eating chicken soup and coloring Disney princesses.

Now, years later, the soup has been swapped for a delicious red velvet cake muffin and the coloring book for the professional sketchbooks that her father uses as well.

One of the earliest lessons she was taught in art was that true beauty lies within the details, and that drawing a simple leaf takes time if you want to tell its story; show every line and edge. But time in the diner is comfortable for her: soft jazz songs from the jukebox passing one by one, and the sound of chatter in her surroundings slowly dying down before it picks up again during the evening hours. 

Frankly, it’s a text from her mother asking if she will be home for dinner tonight that forces her to leave the drawing unfinished. Even though the clock on her phone tells her that it’s barely 6 p.m. the sky outside has put on its black nightgown, and the thought of having to walk home, shadows creeping in the corners of every alley she’ll have to pass through, makes her thankful that her mother made her take self-defense classes since the age of fourteen. 

And Clarke’s barely taken ten quick steps on the pavement before she hears footsteps on the concrete behind her, causing her whole body to become alert at the second, but as she whips around she sees that even though it is a man, he is waving something above his head. “You forgot your scarf, Miss!” The voice is slightly gruff from exhaustion, deep but the common courtesy used by the diner’s employees does not suit it nonetheless. Her heart nearly stops at the sight of the gray cotton scarf, the only thing she has left of her grandmother, and relief crashes over her like a tidal wave.

She tries hard not to beam when he catches up with her, which _nearly_ works. “Thank you so much, seriously. You have no idea-“ Waving a hand, he dismisses her gratefulness in an instant, his own grin - that is boyish given that he looks older than her - fading. 

“It’s nothing…” Insisting, he hands her the scarf, their fingers lightly brushing each other. “Have a good evening,” no, courtesy isn’t at all his thing, but she chooses to ignore that, at least for now. 

* * *

 

When she picks it up carefully, the envelope burns her fingertips, not necessarily in a bad way, because the fire doesn’t catch in her veins, meaning that the rest of her body will be safe. Worrying her lower lip, Clarke glances over her shoulder at her father who is fast asleep on the couch before putting it in her purse, hardly thinking about how it will likely burn through the fabric.

Pushing the door to the diner open, the first thing her eye catches is a head of unruly, dark curls behind the counter, causing a smile to pull at the corners of her mouth. Of course she’d seen him in here no less than a hundred times before, cleaning tables and taking orders, but a kind gesture _can_ change a whole lot, if not everything.

She takes a seat in the first booth, her favorite, casting a glance at the purse immediately. If she doesn’t get this over with, there is a huge chance that she won’t be able to focus on drawing, which is obviously what she came here to do. In her hands again, the envelope with its fancy, cursive font and the shield stamped on the back of it, is more intimidating than ever, so naturally, Clarke rips it open using her slightly trembling hands. 

_Dear Miss. Griffin_

_The Yale Admission’s Committee has completed its evaluation of this year’s candidates, and we are delighted to inform you that you have been selected to join in the class of 2016._  

The breath that finally escapes her lungs upon having been held captive for what feels like hours is small - of the strength that it takes to blow out a candle. Eventually, though, her heart goes back to beating at a healthy, more controlled pace as she’s folded the paper and left it lying next to her on the seat. But the newfound calmness does not render her from staring blankly ahead until he snaps her out of it: “The usual order, Miss?” Honestly, the admission letter addressing her that way was bad enough - Not him too. 

“You can call me Clarke. It’s fine,” she starts easily, but is left pondering over her choice of cake for once, which is odd because she’s never doubted the red velvet, not even when people asked her if she was going to try something different. However, in the end, the hesitation doesn’t quite convince her: “And yes. The usual would be good,” normally, this is his cue; this is where he leaves to get her order, yet he doesn’t move. No instead, to her surprise, he murmurs in genuine concern: “You okay?” 

At that, her eyes travel to him: the exhausted tension in his jaw, the way his thumb dances slowly on the small notepad in his hands. As if the question itself didn’t cease to surprise her, she notices how this man is made of both defined and soft edges: the curve of his mouth, the line of his shoulders, and his hair, falling on his forehead. “Yeah. Don’t worry.” 

What a stupid thing to say, knowing that worry from a stranger is probably the closest thing to sincerity life is going to offer you, because strangers don’t know you and therefore hardly have a reason to believe that they are compelled to pay any attention to you at all. With that thought in mind, her eyes drift to the nametag on his chest and she adds: “But thank you, _Bellamy._ I just got accepted to Yale… You’re allowed to think I’m weird for spacing out instead of squealing of happiness.” 

Chuckling lightly, he glances at the letter next to her. “You’re not jumping up and down, that’s fine. I didn’t either. It just means that your passion is elsewhere, like in art. I’ve seen you in here for the past couple of months, sketching the days away. You’re not fooling anyone.”

“I’m not trying to.”

Raising an eyebrow, Bellamy looks at her expectedly until she raises her own, and Clarke briefly curses the universe for making her such a bad liar and him an apparent mind reader - _is that even fair?_ When he grins at her this time, it’s radiating with the amusement that is also caught in his dark eyes. Smugly, he walks off to make her coffee, not without glancing over his shoulder to catch a last glimpse of her. But this is far from over, because she’s curious about how much he knows; if he has hundreds of unassembled puzzles, each of them a personality of a customer, even if he is wrapped in silence, unwilling to bother them. Does he secretly look at them as people and not as existences who put money in his pocket - does he has stories written for them? 

Biting her lip, Clarke looks at one of the stools in front of the counter, from where she will be able to hopefully annoy him a little bit with her presence. Sass is a weapon, stronger than a gun, obviously they both know that, but chances are that she is way better at shooting than he expects.

Obviously, he is working, which means that not many seconds are saved for the sake of their interaction, however the small glances he sends her while she sips on her coffee could make up for an entire conversation in itself, which weirdly is more simple than it sounds - within half an hour, she understands most of what his eyes are trying to tell her, and she’s almost certain that he chuckles at her internally when she upon having discovered that she forgot her sketchbook at home, ends up doodling on the Yale University envelope. When that is more or less covered in dark blue ink, she moves on to napkins. 

“What did you plan on majoring in if you really wanted to go to that school?” There is a very vague bitterness sticking to his voice that she can’t figure out a reason behind. Briefly, she lets it puzzle her, but chooses to ignore it ultimately.

“Medicine. It’s a family thing,” honestly, it’s not until he snorts that she realizes that her voice might have sounded bitter too, even though she didn’t want it to come out like that. To shove her fluster back into her gut where it belongs, she decides to ask him something that could quite possibly change everything: “What color of M&M’s do you prefer?” 

At first he laughs, and the sound of it a new to her ears, so they shut everything else out: every last bit of the dying chatter in the diner, the bell above the door clinging, to just _listen._ It’s not hollow like she somehow expected it to be; no, it’s warm like the rays of sun in California that she occasionally finds herself missing. 

Then, as she continues to look at him, slowly raising the eyebrow again, he understands: “You’re serious.”

“Always, because this happens to be dead-serious business.”

“Are you talking to me about murder or the importance of the colors of M&M’s?”

“Just answer the question dammit,” she pushes, leaning forward, closer to his face and he is nice enough to pretend that it actually intimidates him. 

“Alright! Okay, it’s probably red.”

“I’ll take it,” once more, they exchange smiles and honestly, Clarke is relieved to be ending the afternoon like that. 

 

She leaves the napkins on which she doodled lying at the counter as a silent thank you.

 

* * *

 

When Clarke breaks to her parents that she got accepted to Yale, her mother returns from work early for once so they can celebrate, which sounds wonderful yet considering that their definitions of a celebration is about as different as they can be, Clarke wishes that it could be done her way for once. With a relaxed, much needed family night ruled by inside jokes and gushing about childhood memories… But it will be with a party, her mother inviting all of the family friends and connections to drink the same dry red wine, talk about politics and Clarke’s many opportunities.

At night, Clarke watches the football game with her father, huddled in blankets on the couch. It’s been a tradition for as long as she can remember; in fact, she has pretty vivid memories of sitting on her father’s lap, sucking her thumb until their team scored a goal and she had to take it out in order to smile. This time though, something is different, as she is the only one sitting at the edge of her seat, eyes glued to the screen - she senses her father looking at her, but it’s not until she gets up during halftime that she notices its significance. He looks _sad. Very sad._ The wrinkles around his eyes seem deeper with his frown, and his wonderful gray eyes are shadowed by dullness. 

“What’s wrong, dad?” 

A while passes in silence, and when he speaks at last, his voice cracks mid-sentence: “You’re growing up.” 

At his words, she forces a tiny smile then decides that nothing could mean less than snacks right now. Refusing to take her eyes away from him, she moves back to couch, curling up against his side. Like nothing else, her father’s arm fits around her; it always has. Right from the start, they were a team of artists with the same passion in their bones, the same paint splattering their fingers. Clarke’s little hands around his and planted on wet canvases. Now, she’s going away and the mere thought of that is horrible; here with him, she’d always been able to find understanding, even if not from her mother. She is afraid that no one else will provide that.

He presses a kiss to her hair, a single tear ripping from his eye and rolling down his cheek. “I’ll always be with you. Remember that if you ever feel lonely.”

 

* * *

 

For once, Clarke had planned to walk right past the diner on her way to the library. Coat wrapped tightly around her as a shield against the cold winds, she continues walking but cannot resist throwing a glance over her shoulder at least look at her favorite place - instead, her eye catches _him_ , leaning against the brick wall, a lit cigarette between his fingers. 

“Hey,” he says when he notices her, even if she’s still gaping. “You’re not coming in today?”

Finally, at his question she wakes up and decides to forget that she has a college survival guide to borrow. Walking up to him, she smiles yet can’t quite tear her eyes from the cigarette. Seems weird that a guy that young and seemingly smart would intentionally shorten his life, one puff at a time. “I’m a little tired of red velvet cake at the moment.” 

Grinning around the cigarette, he does it again; speaks more words with his gaze than his mouth, since they are the only part of his body that does not seem exhausted right now; his shoulders have slumped and his jaw is tense once more. “Ah, you stayed for the cake…” For a moment, something about those words cause electricity to run through her, sizzling in her bones until she starts to feel funny. Then, he adds, glancing at her parted lips: “What about your art?”

_That was not what he wanted to ask,_ she figures. When she doesn’t say anything, he continues: “I saw the drawings you did on the napkins, wanted to frame them, but my boss thought it was weird.”

Now, it’s her time to laugh, and she finds herself slowly inching closer to him. For a minute, they simply stand there, smiling to themselves - while she’s blowing on cheap strawberry bubble gum, he is blowing out smoke. Suddenly, she has to ask: “Why do you smoke?”

Running a hand through his messy hair, Bellamy sighs, obviously having expected nothing else from a doctor’s daughter, but Clarke feels a need to write: _I just care too much_ on her forehead, since she doesn’t want him to judge her because he thinks she’s judging him.

“Not to look cool, if that’s what you think. And actually finding out why would acquire you to get to know me better, which I suppose would be a waste of your time.”

Clarke snorts at that, which seems to earn his attention. “If you think that I’m just a pretty do-gooder whose head is too fucking stuck in the clouds of her privilege to understand that there are people who have it worse than her, then I’m afraid that you’ll have to get to know me better as well. Sucks right?”

That silences him for longer than she imagined, and something about it makes her feel proud. She needs to be understood as much as him, even if it seems ridiculous. Maybe he knows that now, because he asks: ”Why do you draw?”

_Thank God._ “Because I love it. My father put the passion for it into my blood by telling me to focus on details everywhere I go. He taught me that everything has a story that’s just waiting to be told. I like doing that. It gives me a sense of comfort.”

“It calms you?”

“Exactly,” when he nods slowly, she knows that he understands more and more while glancing at the little bit of cigarette left in his hand that he goes to throw out. As he returns to her side, their hands brush, and Clarke just lets her fingers slip in between his. Squeezing them lightly, Clarke notices how he takes a deep breath, running a calloused thumb over her palm. Then, he smiles again, looking down at her for the first time since she asked him a personal question. “Can I take you out sometime?”

“Obviously.”

* * *

Their date begins, not at the movies or at a fancy Italian restaurant but with him sweeping checkered floors while humming along to the sound of a cheesy country song as he occasionally casts glances over his shoulder to look at her. When he finishes, he leads her by the hand out back, to the diner’s kitchen, and shockingly passes her a big bowl of leftover chocolate chip cookie dough. “You know, I’m terribly sorry about this,” running a hand through his hair, he offers her a spoon briefly unaware that Clarke already has her fingertip in the bowl. “Don’t apologize. I hate clichés anyway, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t have to tell me a little bit about yourself, Bellamy.” 

Flashing her his standard boyish grin, he hops onto the counter next to her. “Bellamy Blake. 21 years old. Born and raised in Chicago but I moved here with my family when I was thirteen.”

“When did you start working here?”

“About a year ago. To pay for law school,” as he says that last word, he averts his eyes, leaving her to desperately search for them. He had mentioned before that he wasn’t happy about being accepted to college, but the possibility of it actually being true never quite hit her. Until now…

For a while, they sit in silence, eating sweet cookie dough straight from the bowl, since when the majority of the conversations you have with a person is through eye contact, trying to speak without it is a far bigger challenge than you would imagine. Instead of feeling awkward, Clarke happily takes it as a good opportunity to study him shamelessly. She’s not blind. He’s _hot -_ all freckles and muscle. “What do you _want_ to study?”

At that, he looks at her, eyes wide because of something other than the dough she just licked off her finger, and for a moment she is afraid that he is not going to answer - that there is a very fine line separating her and personal information about him. Then, to her utter surprise, tales of gods and emperors fall off his lips and with them his face relaxes completely, his smile softer than she’s ever seen it as he speaks of Augustus, who fought for the greatness of the Roman Empire. The entire time, Clarke doesn’t say a word, witnessing him transform into something incredibly bright and breathtaking. 

Nevertheless, when he has nothing more to say, the by now familiar sadness takes over his features again, causing his hands to fumble for a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his jeans. Quickly, she takes them in hers, saying: “Guess we’re both bound to find solace in art.” 

He looks at her intensely for a long time as she caresses his knuckles. “You call history art?”

Nodding, a smile starts to tug at the corners of her mouth. Almost instantly, Bellamy mirrors it, and somehow within the comfortable silence, they decide that their first date shouldn’t be carrying their individual burdens as well. So Bellamy starts telling her about his little sister Octavia, who he speaks of as his entire world - about his favorite places as a kid: the lake and the woods near his house. He mentions that his mother inherited it from his grandparents; the old kitchen stove that seems to burn everything except his grandmother’s old recipes - the fireplace and its distinctive smell of wood and sparks.

As the sun sets, they are both sitting in front of the counter for once, eating muffins with _spoons -_ his choice is strangely original: vanilla with chocolate chips, and she teases him about it for longer than she would like to admit - until he reaches over to steal a mouthful of hers. Of course she has to fight back, and she enjoys how his lips part in disbelief when her spoon manages to dig up a piece of muffin that holds a giant chocolate chip. “Without the cheese cream frosting, it would be boring,” Bellamy reviews, but she smirks, declaring: “Yours is boring no matter what.”

Barely offended, he shrugs. “Doesn’t mean _I_ am.”

A little later, the sugar runs around in their bloodstreams, causing them both to laugh uncontrollably as they move to the beanbags at the back of the diner where the high school students usually roam during the day. “This is the best date ever. Do you know why? Because it’s lame.”

“Glad you think so.” 

“No! I mean it. Whenever my family tries to get me to be a part of anything formal, I fail terribly. It’s tragic. I’m tragic.” 

“What? You tragic? I can’t imagine that,” he murmurs honestly, playing with the end of her braid. Looking at him, she chuckles, very grateful but nonetheless determined to enlighten him on exactly who he is dealing with: “Oh really? Then listen to this: I had my first kiss in the sixth grade, but the girl ran away from me,” afterwards, Clarke finds herself worrying her lower lip over the maybe too casual admission of her sexuality. However, Bellamy surprises her by gently turning her face and capturing her lips with his own. 

And he kisses her like she’s a storm in which he is desperate to get caught, smiling against her mouth at the whirlwind they cause, with her hand in his hair, fingertips slipping through its dark curls - his hand fitted around her waist, effectively pulling her closer. But just after she’s realized that she is in danger of becoming addicted, he breaks away to place a kiss on her nose that has her eyelids fluttering shut. “Here’s the thing: I don’t run.”

 

* * *

 

But _she_ does, when the earthquakes shatter the ground she walks upon; rips it in two, carving a deep, ruthless chasm for her to fall into. With the phone call from her mother that she didn’t believe was real; her usually strong voice now broken, words teary and as if copied from one of her childhood nightmares - when she sees her father surrounded by white walls, eyes terrifyingly dull and she wraps him in an embrace in spite of how much her heart wants her to scream: ‘ _why didn’t you tell me sooner?’_

Clarke doesn’t go to the diner for two weeks, cannot bring herself to lift a pen or sing a song: all of the words are starting to sound like his voice, which is more than she can take. Instead, she stays by his bedside, watching the football game and tries to cheer, if only for his sake. But when her father starts to give her his chocolate pudding, she knows that it isn’t nearly convincing enough.

The first time she walks by the diner, the colors of its walls seem washed out, so therefore she doesn’t offer it a second glance. As she begins walking again, however, someone grabs her elbow, almost causing her to scream. “Clarke…”

_Oh no._ Hearing his warm voice in her head was something she could barely take; wanting to hear it again, but knowing that coming anywhere near him was going to blow her heart into even more tiny pieces, and she is running out of band aids. When she doesn’t say anything, he gently turns her around, which makes her force her eyes to the ground as she exhales sharply. For a moment, he waits patiently, but then: “I was- I am worried about you. Where have you been?”

Despite his softness, bitterness seeps into Clarke’s bones, gritting her teeth and tensing her jaw. “Not here, clearly,” she doesn’t have to look up to know that he has raised his eyebrow. Placing two fingers underneath her jaw, he tips it upward until her eyes finally meet his. As he notices the tears hiding in the corners, Bellamy cups her face. “What happened?”

At that, Clarke starts to tremble, sobs clogging her throat, and she’s aware that the only way she will get them out of there is if she tells him, so she does: “My father has been diagnosed with cancer. Stage 4, but that’s not even the worst part. He’s known for months, and he didn’t tell me. I’ve--” 

As soon as the first sob emerges, Bellamy has her wrapped in an embrace, tugged against his chest, letting his shirt absorb all of her tears. Although Clarke’s ears are mostly listening to the cruel voices of her worst nightmares, she can distantly hear him murmur apologies into her hair as he kisses the crown of it. Then, he starts rubbing her back, chasing the demons off her spine, so that there soon falls an apology off her own lips: 

“I’ve spent the last two weeks in the hospital, holding my father’s hand whilst drowning in my own tears. Coming back here didn’t feel right, and I should’ve called you, but I didn’t know if I could even get the words out and-“

“It’s alright.” 

“I can’t spend another night in that place…” She admits after a while, her heart aching with guilt, because now she should be spending all of her time with her father, but the beautiful picture of him is tearing apart and she can’t bear it anymore - cannot bear a single memory of his laughter in her ears, images of her on the counter watching as he cooked, or returning home from school with drawings for him - while she looks at him sleep, wondering if he will wake up again.

After pondering a bit, Bellamy takes her hand. “You should go to a place you’ve never been before. Somewhere that’s less overwhelming…” 

That’s how they end up in his blue pickup truck, which he calls “the crushed soda can” for a reason; her wrapped up in a blanket in the passenger seat with a bag of M&M’s that she’d bought in the corner shop at the hospital. And while she eats all of the green ones, she picks the red out for Bellamy, placing a couple in his palm from time to time. While they drive, he takes her mind to a calmer place as he tells the story of Cassiopeia, the queen who was transformed into a constellation. It’s even more mesmerizing when combined with the rock tunes of his playlist and his kisses that taste like chocolate.

* * *

 

Over his shoulder, she catches a mere glimpse of the house that he’s spoken so fondly of, but that is all she gets as Bellamy takes her hand, intertwining their fingers - causing warmth to seep from his into hers - and leads her into the woods instead. The colors of those lucky leaves, which still cling to the trees, are incredibly vibrant, almost hurting her eyes since they’ve accustomed easily to the dull ones smattering the walls of the hospital. Her heart swelling with relief, Clarke stops in her tracks to kiss him; wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing against him, and he responds passionately for a moment, taking her sensitive bottom lip between his teeth only to soothe it with his tongue as soon as they feel like releasing it. Then, he breaks the spell, painting a pout on her face. “You haven’t seen anything yet,” even though Bellamy may throw promises into the air as if blowing out cigarette smoke… 

… He keeps every single one of them. 

Because the lake is perhaps the most beautiful thing Clarke has ever seen, and for the first time in what has passed by like an eternity, she thinks: ‘ _I would love to draw this’_ (when she tells Bellamy his grin turns radiant).

And when she takes the first step into the small house, the atmosphere makes her eyes water; not because it’s overwhelming, but because it manages the impossible: lifting the weight off her shoulders. The smell of wood from the fireplace that she can’t even see yet mixed with a vague one of banana bread, the sound of crackling flames.

As she admires the living room; its old couches covered in blankets, coffee cups and tea mugs on the table, the newspaper opened on the cross-word page, Bellamy goes to the kitchen. When he returns, he is carrying a bag of marshmallows, some dark chocolate and a pack of graham crackers. “When I was a kid, my mother would do this with me frequently. I guess she felt guilty for working so much. Now, I’m in charge of carrying on the tradition, which means that I’ll have to give these to O,” Bellamy explains, presenting a plate with three perfectly made S’mores after just five minutes, and the proud smile on his face doesn’t hide the fact that he knows how great he is at this. Then he briefly disappears up the stairs. 

According to Bellamy, Octavia is in that particular teenage phase which is spent behind closed doors, listening to the kind of music that is way too loud, never finding time to clean your room and putting on too much eye makeup, but he still loves her; he still kisses her hair and drives her places, rolls his eyes at her complaints and stuffs her with the best pastries when life threatens to get her down. Tugged against his side, her legs tangling with his (the couch is fucking narrow, sue them), Clarke rests her head on his shoulder, presses her lips to his neck when he nuzzles her cheek. 

He tells her more about the stars, and at some point, they both drift off to sleep...

 

* * *

 

When they wake up, everything is weak sunlight and his sleepy smile - lazily, she kisses the corner where it tugs upward, runs her fingertip from freckle to freckle, connecting them in constellations. Soon, he leaves the couch, but the smell of scrambled eggs and toast that fill the living room air afterwards has the tension seeping from her shoulders. Octavia eats with them, her blue eyes set on Clarke curiously the entire time. Apart from the lighter skin and blue eyes, it is stunning how much she looks like Bellamy, the most significant resemblance probably being the amused sparks brightening both of their gazes.

They drive to the hospital once the sun has grown a little stronger, fingers intertwined between the seats. While the radio spits out murmured words of Coldplay songs, he looks increasingly nervous, his jaw tensing and eyes turning distant. Whether it’s because he hasn’t smoked in a while or because of the fact that he’s going to meet her parents, Clarke doesn’t know, but he wanted to come along nevertheless. “You need a cigarette?” 

Licking his lip unconsciously, Bellamy looks at her briefly then gives her hand a tiny squeeze. “No, I’m good.”

* * *

 

Around Abby Griffin, Bellamy turns into a waiter again, every word he speaks carefully picked out and heavy with courtesies that nearly make Clarke cringe, but it’s no secret that her mother values respect, so she decides to bite her tongue. Luckily, her father’s reaction when he wakes up to the sight of his daughter leaning up against an older boy he’s never met, is completely different and not to mention stunning, since the smile that spreads across his lips then is one that didn’t even show when the 49’ers won the football finals. Yes, he still looks unbearably sick, but watching him happy takes some weight off Clarke’s heart, and it only becomes better when Bellamy gets them all coffee and decides to finally behave normally, talking a little bit about himself. 

“Ah, I was wondering why she was spending so much time at that diner. Now I know why!” Jake says, slightly triumphant while eyeing Clarke, whose cheeks are turning pink. 

“Well, she left me under the impression that she stayed for the cupcakes. And her art, of course.”

“You’ve seen my daughter’s art?” The thing about passion is that you tend to love it to the point where you can hardly allow yourself to share it with anyone, because it is so dear that you become sick with ownership, selfish and scared that a person might see why you’re burning; what has ignited you - what is keeping you going when you want to give up.

“Only a little bit, but it…” Upon offering her parents a small smile, Bellamy twists his face to look into those blue eyes, which are already on him. “… It’s beautiful,” immediately, she looks down, shy - that’s when he leans closer to whisper in her ear: “You don’t have to believe it for it to be true, ” with those words, the rest of the afternoon passes almost lightly, Jake falling asleep to the sound of infomercials and Abby’s gaze on Bellamy slowly evolving into something comfortable. Of course, he talks about law school but doesn’t know how to pretend he doesn’t hate it. In the end, after watching his comforting hand on her daughter’s shoulder and the roses he leaves for Jake at the bedside table, it doesn’t seem to matter to her.

During the evening hours, Clarke eats her Chinese takeout with tears running down her cheeks and ends up falling asleep in the chair next to her father’s bed. Knowing about his mother’s night shift and his promise to Octavia, Bellamy places a blanket over her body and a lingering kiss to her forehead. But quietly from the corner of the room, Abby suddenly speaks: “Bellamy, I know Jake wouldn’t want Clarke to spend her days in a depressing cell just because he has to. Can you take her home with you?” 

* * *

Even though Clarke still goes to the hospital every afternoon, she spends the mornings and evenings at Bellamy’s house or at the diner until his shift ends - until they sit by the fireplace in the living room, huddled together pressing kisses into hair. If she needs to, he lets her talk for hours, reconnecting with the memories of her father in her mind like old, innocent cartoons - at some of them, she finds herself smiling: at their lunch breaks in the studio, him teaching her how to drive, those times when they pulled pranks together on her stressed-out mother. But it isn’t until Clarke finally meets Bellamy’s mother, Aurora, that she learns something significant about his childhood: “You know, he used to play tee ball,” and Clarke nearly chokes on her spaghetti. 

“No way!” 

“Absolutely! He loved it so much,” looking at Aurora, it is no mystery where the Blake siblings got their beauty from, because even though the woman most of the time looks completely worn out, her soul still burns in her eyes. Casting a glance at Bellamy across the table, Clarke recognizes a rare expression of fluster on his face, blood having rushed to his cheeks and his smile turning awkward as he runs a hand through his hair. After dinner, Aurora shows her a couple photographs of him, getting ready to run on the tee ball field.

And in spite of the whole thing being slightly awkward for him, it moves their relationship forward in a way Clarke can only be grateful for. He takes her up to his room, which is neatly cleaned and organized (“I can’t have chaos in my head and my surroundings at the same time. It fucking stresses me out.”) - shows her his collection of books - mostly classics and mythology but with a few hidden surprises. On his bed, they listen to music, sharing a pair of headphones while eating a delicious apple pie that she learns he bakes quite frequently, since it’s his grandmother’s recipe and therefore won’t get burned on the godforsaken stove.

When it starts to pour, they get a habit of driving to the middle of nowhere in his car. Listening the raindrops hit its roof and windows, falling in synch with his warm laughter, Clarke feels more alive than she has in weeks. As he looks at her intensely, his dark eyes shining although the sun doesn’t, she realizes that she is in love with him. She has fallen in love with a storyteller who burns for old tales, the world around him having broken him to the point where he can no longer see its beauty unless she paints it for him. She has fallen in love with the man who smells like home - tastes like black coffee and promises. 

“I love you,” the words come out effortlessly, like poetry, and when he says them back, eyes marked with surprise, she truly understands their beauty. Everything beautiful has an effect, this one being them making out in the backseat, the hurricane stronger than ever before as his tongue teases the seam of her mouth, hands running down her sides, and she lets him in until the storm has taken her breath away, forcing her to break the connection. Instead, Clarke runs her fingers down his back as if exploring a blank canvas; kisses a trail of fire on his neck until he groans at the heat.

But just as a nebula of wonderful colors start to blur her vision with the press of his body against hers and the way that he touches her, he gently pushes her hands away from where they had begun to pull the fabric of his shirt up and kisses her nose. Noticing the disappointed look on her face, he asks bluntly: “Would this be your first time?” 

“Yeah, but…” 

“But I’m not going to be a jackass and let it be in the back of my shitty car, alright? You deserve better.”

* * *

 

At times when he opens up, telling stories of a young boy who was teased for being different and wanted nothing more than to be a mighty emperor like Augustus so they wouldn’t dare to laugh at him anymore, Clarke draws on his skin - mountains and dragons for him to slay. Their kisses grow deeper as the winds become freezing, and on the last night of September, they are sitting on the pickup, a blanket splayed out underneath them and bowls of Aurora’s beloved Mac ‘N Cheese in hand.

“Which goddess do I remind you of?” Clarke asks, looking up at the sky trying to find Cassiopeia - this time it doesn’t take her long. Next to her, she can sense him smiling around his fork, pondering over the question for a bit. At last, he concludes: “None of them. You’re too complex, which is not bad, because I think that if anything, someone should name a goddess after you. Clarke Griffin The gentle, goddess of art and preservation of love. Queen of the sass kingdom.”

“Well, now you’re just being a dork… But if anyone asks, you’re _my_ dork.”

Even if everything for a minute seems like a fairytale of M&M’s and cotton candy colored lipstick smeared on his cheek, Clarke has become aware that such stories don’t exist. It is a cruel realization that comes along the moment that tragedy devastates it all like mere pieces of glass. The next morning while wrapped in his arms, the taste of blueberry muffin still sweet on her tongue, her mother calls saying that her father keeps slipping in and out of consciousness… 

Even though her father’s hold on her hand is strong once they arrive to the hospital room, and he is awake, his eyes are dull, full of shadows, showing no recognition of anything around him, not her either, which ultimately is the breaking point that every other horrible thing has just added to. Wrecked by tears, she storms into Bellamy’s room, cursing the hospital staff for not letting her stay overnight. “He didn’t recognize me,” the words are half a sob, half a scream. “And it’s my own damn fault because I haven’t been there!”

“Stop beating yourself up, Clarke. And stop lying to yourself. You’ve been there every day, and even at times when you weren’t, he’s been on your mind,” eyes hard, gaze broken, she whips around to walk to him. As she speaks, her voice trembles with her heart breaking: “I’m beating myself up because it wasn’t good enough. I want to save him.” 

“But you can’t. You need to-“ 

“Shut up, Bellamy. You know nothing!“ She hisses, yet when she attempts to push him away, he only on tighter, pulling her into his chest and whispering in her ear: “I know nothing, huh? Go ahead, think that if it makes you feel any better, but I reckon it doesn’t since you know that I _do_ know what it feels like to want to save someone I love, whether it’s my sister whose future lies in my hands or _you_ who is breaking right in front of me in this instant and I- I hate that I can’t help you.” 

“Are you seriously making this about you?” 

“No! I’m trying to say that you’re not alone, Clarke, despite how much you tend to think so. I’m here, even though I can’t make things better.”

Then, a long moment of silence passes, the last tears only racing a short distance until he brushes them away with his thumb. Desperately letting out a raspy breath, Clarke opens her eyes, exposing the vividly blue flood in her gaze. “You have. You’ve changed everything.” 

She kisses him, determined to get the frown off his face, nipping at his bottom lip until he gives in, responding with a force, which causes her hands to fumble against his chest, clinging onto his shirt. “You look handsome in dark blue,” while it is a comment that has no relation to anything else they have said to each other, it makes him groan. Daring to suck on his sensitive pulse point, Clarke sneaks her hands underneath the fabric and touches the skin there for the first time, finding it smooth compared to that of his hands. In spite of her mind being clouded from the sensation, she feels his fingertips gentle on her scalp while they slowly pull the elastic that is holding her braid out, letting the golden waves fall around her face.

Briefly, he breaks away to admire the new look, softness caught in his eyes. Smiling, he cups her face, fingers slipping into her hair as their lips reunite. Yes, their noses bump and teeth clash in the midst of passion, but Clarke finally gets to take his shirt off, so any awkwardness be damned. Around her, his arms are strong, like walls that protect her without leaving her confined, and she lets his hands pick her up by the thighs, carry her with the same strength that he uses to carry the world, but she is not a burden. He said so himself, and she believes him. 

While Bellamy hesitates at exposing her skin, he doesn’t hesitate on kissing every inch of it once he has, brushing his lips over every line and edge to find the secret soft spots, below her jaw and breast, at the curve of her hip. He continues until it has left her breathless, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes as her mouth releases a needy whimper, craving attention. Because he doesn’t, she simply pulls his face to hers and kisses him, running her fingers down his spine - sure enough it’s been bent, which causes a wave of sadness to roll through her. That wave is to be replaced by nervousness through, as they are both bared. For a long while, Bellamy lets her get used to the feeling, them being skin to skin and the fire that comes along with it, the flames licking up their bodies, causing her breath to catch. It’s intense, but he doesn’t lose his mind in it: _“Are you sure?”_ and when she simply nods, he admits that he needs her to _say_ it, so despite it being difficult whilst her heart pounds against her ribcage, she does.

It doesn’t really hurt until he starts moving, their universes colliding and she sees stars behind her eyelids. Their fingers intertwined on top of the mattress as her lips tremble to find his around a gasp. When they meet, he thrusts deeply, freeing a moan from her throat, which he kisses instantly, making her eyelids flutter. On his now slick skin, her hands slip until her blunt nails dig into his shoulder blades. With a hiss, Bellamy hikes her leg up, running his fingertips over the skin below her thigh and hooks it under his arm. “Okay?” He hesitates, licking his bottom lip, but she only urges him, lust and love on fire within her eyes all at once.

Once it’s over, upon her coming undone with a broken moan and him following, Clarke is left feeling more exposed than before, the remaining wall between them a pathetic ruin that they will most likely forget. For a while, she lays there, staring at the ceiling as he regains control of his breath next to her. Then, she feels his gaze on him, shivers rushing through her at his words, full of affection: “Clarke, come here,” as soon as she’s crawled into his arms, getting comfortable, he presses a kiss to the crown of her head. Upon having returned his gaze, her eyes fall on a tattoo just below his shoulder that she has never seen before: _Ἄτλας._ Admiring it, Clarke only dares to trace it with a fingertip, and to her surprise, Bellamy explains without her needing to ask: “It’s _Atlas_ in Greek.” 

“Another mythology figure?” Bellamy nods at her question, worries his lip. “Why him?”

“He was condemned to carry the weight of the heavens on his shoulders. Just like me…” Smiling sadly, Clarke presses her lips to the ink and feels him sigh deeply. “You relate to him and I understand why, but there is a difference. Atlas was condemned, he didn’t have a choice, and I know that you think you don’t either but you _do_ _._ You chose to study the law even though it isn’t what you want, knowing that a job in that field would provide a better income for your family. Chances are that you’ll never understand how selfless that is, but if you could see yourself through the eyes of everyone else for just a moment, you would have _hero_ written all over your skin.”

There is no adverb in the world that can properly describe the amount of love that he pours into the kiss he gives her after those words have fallen from her lips. 

They’ve been laying there in the darkness for a little while when Clarke admits to him that she doesn’t think she’ll be able to fall asleep with heated, naked skin. A fond smile on his face, Bellamy grabs his dark blue shirt from the floor to hand it to her, and as soon as she is dressed, he leads her down the stairs, into the kitchen where the air is significantly cooler. Pulling her into an embrace, he holds onto her hand. Together, they sway to the music playing on repeat in their minds, in the moonlight that shines through the window leaving a silver glow on the wooden floors. The feeling that swells in her heart is one of safety, one of home.

 

* * *

In the early morning hours Clarke is woken by the weak rays of sunlight fighting their way through the white curtains and the sensation of Bellamy’s lips on her collarbone. “Good morning,” he drawls sleepily, combing his fingers through her hair, and something tells her that he’s been wanting to do that for too long, yet he was hindered by the many braids, top knots and ponytails. 

“Morning,” planting a short kiss on his lips, she grins, pretending to fall asleep again as her head hits the pillow.

“Do you wanna shower first? I’ll have breakfast ready when you’re done.”

“Actually, I think we should try to save water. You’re coming with me.” 

The warm water running down her body as Bellamy massages shampoo into her scalp and presses kisses down her spine easily puts her senses into a wonderful overload. Looking back, Clarke would have never thought she’d be this comfortable around someone, let them get so, close but somehow he has made it further than anyone else, her heart leaping to find a spot that can fit him as his palm rests on her ribcage.

Feeling lazy from the shower, Clarke finds a white bottom up in Bellamy’s closet to wear, but as she goes to check her phone on the bedside table, she finds the screen lit up:

**Missed calls from Mom: 7**

And just like that the tension takes over her entire body again, panic starting to course through her veins.

* * *

 

When people say things tend to get better before they get worse, they’re absolutely right, because it turns out that Jake Griffin has now been conscious for the longest time in a whole week. To celebrate, Bellamy brings cupcakes from the diner along to the hospital, making the smile on Abby’s lips impossibly brighter. For the entirety of the afternoon, they all gush about dreams, feeling hopeful enough to do so in spite of everything. Dazzled, Clarke speaks of Paris, the streets of Montmartre whilst her parents squeeze each other’s hands and Bellamy… Well, Bellamy talks about the things that he expects to give him happiness in the future: his mother, Octavia, the book he wants to publish about how Roman and Greek gods love to hide in people’s souls. And then, lastly, he smiles at Clarke, the girl who gives him the relaxation that he believed only cigarettes could.

Clarke kisses her father’s cheek as he beams at her, recognizing his little girl who ran on wobbling toddler legs, hands covered in finger paint… At home, in the quiet, she makes love to Bellamy on the couch and dares to think that perhaps life does get better.

But no, she should have guessed since it is pure logic after all: Once you’ve reached the top of the mountain, in front of you is a long way down. However, Clarke doesn’t see that coming until she slips down, fast and lands with an earth-shattering force, recreating the chasm around herself. It only takes a week for his father’s hand to become slack in hers, and there is nothing anyone can do to prevent ghosts from taking the life in his eyes away. Through tears, she manages to grit her teeth, determined to let her father go to something other than the sound of her screams, so she forces a quiet melody past her lips while her heart bleeds. 

At his funeral, she wears his plaid shirt underneath the thick black sweater, drowning in tears and the vaguely remembered taste of his burnt sugar cookies on her tongue. Two days later, she says goodbye to Bellamy…

* * *

 

“I’m here to get my stuff,” she barely manages, averting her eyes at the second his face falls, his eyes widening and lips parting. Honestly, Clarke is afraid that he is going to say something, but after a moment, he silently steps aside, letting her walk into the house for the last time. Considering that she only has a few pieces of clothing, a nearly empty deodorant and a toothbrush, it takes her a long time to finish, hoping that if she is there long enough she will be able to bottle the atmosphere and spray it all around wherever place she is going next. But then she looks at him, at every single one of his edges and realizes that there is no way she can keep this comfort when she is leaving _him._

The sound of the box hitting the floor echoes in the living room now that it has been emptied from the warmth that usually fills it. Feeling stone cold, she rushes into Bellamy’s arms, hoping to get some shelter. Instead, she finds herself in a blizzard, the ruthless winter settling around them as she sobs frantically into his favorite shirt: _“I have to, I have to, I have to, I have to…”_

And the kiss that she leaves on his lips is one that tells him that he needs to let her go - that he needs to accept that those tears on her cheeks right now is some that he can’t wipe away, that the love he offers is not one that can carry her. Knowing that brings him to selfishness - to for the first time ask something of her: “When you walk, don’t say anything, don’t glance back, just go,” even though she doesn’t look shocked, she doesn’t move either.

“Go,” he repeats, forcing strength into his voice.

“Bellamy…” 

“Go, Clarke! Just please go.” 

And she does, managing to hold the sobs back until the door is closed. She doesn’t know how she manages everything that comes next, but she does that too somehow.

 

* * *

 

**_Charlotte, NC - present day_ **

****

“Are you fucking kidding me, Griffin?” is the very first thing Raven says when Clarke ends. “This is a mess. You’re a mess.”

“Thank you. I noticed,” looking at the tear-stained sleeves of her sweater, Clarke retorts weakly, because she knows that it is the truest statement she has ever heard. Leaving her on the couch, her roommate stands up, walks to the kitchen with determined steps and returns with the package in hand. “Yes, but you’re a mess because a guy sent your scarf back. You walked away, Clarke. You begged him to let you go, and here is the sign that he truly has. Why aren’t you relieved?” Clarke opens her mouth to reply, but she doesn’t get the chance. “Oh, that’s right. Because you still love him. You haven’t forgotten about him, and you don’t want him to forget about you as that means that you’ll be alone in this cheesy, unnecessary longing. I say: Open the damn package and face what is inside. Then, we’ll go from there.” 

And of course, her intuition was right. It’s the scarf and only that it seems, for a while, meaning a dead end, no turning back. On the back of it, written in dark blue ink from his rushed hand, is an address, but not just any address; _the_ address, unchanged, and it makes her heart pound, breaking all at the same time. Even though she doubts that she will be able to pick up the pieces, she follows the road back to where they scattered the first time, driving on old asphalt that smells bitterly of regrets.

* * *

 

When she doesn’t see “the crushed soda can” in the driveway, a lump forms in her throat as she is brought to wonder how many things changed with her leaving. However, that thought only stays within her mind for a few moment since as he opens the door, Clarke is hit by a recognition that nearly brings tears to her eyes: aside from the stubble on his face, at the initial glance he looks like the Bellamy she left. While he studies her, lips parted for a second until he forces his jaw to clench, she thinks that she might look exactly like the girl he knew, too: the girl who left him and is now standing at his doorstep after years of not offering him a word. 

In spite of that, he lets her in, but that hardly means that he doesn’t care since just as she is losing herself in the soothing smell that still lingers in the house, Bellamy breaks the spell: “Why are you here, Clarke?” 

The feeling of home that is currently rushing through her body is so strong that she believes the words that leave her lips to be true: “Because I never really left,” but Bellamy snorts, causing her to immediately question them.

“You _did_ , Clarke. You left this house and you left me,” eyes not quite angry, he steps closer to her, defying the wall that she has built with every move of his feet. “You left me to wonder how you were; if you were miraculously healing yourself or if you were sitting in pieces somewhere, alone. So before I kick you out, how about you tell me which scenario is right?” 

Stunned, she breaks the rest of the wall herself as her next, sharp words shatter the glass: “Or how about you get your head out of your ass and stop trying to know about anything that’s been going on in my life?” 

“I could ask you the same thing, Clarke. Because guess what? You left and things changed. I changed. You can’t simply waltz in here and expect everything to be the same.”

“What the hell do you-?” She starts, but stops abruptly, deciding to actually think before she allows this whole goddamn thing to explode even more. Trying to ignore the anger that has now been brought to his gaze, Clarke looks around, remarking how nothing looks unusual on the surface. However, it does seem awfully quiet. “Octavia?” The name is low emerging from her lips.

“Left for college five months ago,” frankly, the first emotion that hits her upon him saying that is relief: a relief that she feels for him because he was able to send his sister to school with his shitty tips from the diner. Then, she feels slightly sad, knowing how much he must miss her like a piece of his soul, but of course he still has his…

“Your mother?” Clarke asks easily, expecting to hear _‘at work’, ‘at the grocery store’_ or something completely different than the silence that follows. It’s devastation that meets her eyes as soon as he looks at her. 

“She passed away two years ago. Car accident.”

Honestly, it takes her a while to understand: Aurora is dead. Bellamy lost his mother, his support system, the only person alive capable of fighting for him, because he has never even been able to himself; it’s always been about his family - everything he did was for them. With his little sister in college and his mother on a cloud looking down at him, Bellamy undoubtedly feels utterly alone.

But he isn’t - not anymore. And she can’t help it, wrapping her arms around him in a hug to let him know. Instantly, he tenses, refusing to return it, but she could not care less, burying her nose in the crook of his neck, inhaling the spicy scent of his cologne that had clung to the wrapping paper as well. It had made her feel homesick, and now that she is here, her heart swells at the familiarity, the strength of his arms as they finally come around her. “You could have told me,” the words are slightly muffled by his skin. “I would have been here. I would’ve-“. 

“I know. And I probably should have. She was really fond of you.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Pulling away, she searches for his gaze, and when she finds it, surprisingly it isn’t fueled with resentment or anger. Instead, it’s broken, which is why he attempts to look away, not wanting her to see the seriousness of the destruction. Not caring about it, Clarke takes his face in her hands, feeling the deep breath he has to take.

“I was a mess, Clarke. I- I started to smoke heavily again, took on unbearable workloads to grow familiar with another kind of pain - a pain that made me drag myself to bed every night, fight with my sister until she’d tell me she hated me. Slept with people just to feel something else. I-I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want you to blame yourself, which I knew that you would.” 

Tears stinging in her eyes, Clarke lets him pull her in again. Sniffling, she takes the fabric of his shirt between her fingers, begging for it to calm her. Instead, Bellamy does, gently running his hand through her hair. “You don’t hate me?” She asks quietly.

“No, I don’t. But…” At that last word, panic causes her heart to beat frantically until she thinks to herself that she needs to hear whatever it is that he has to say. “… I hate that you broke my heart. And I hated how it was still able to worry about you, to love you. I sent that scarf back because my mind told me I had to, tricked me into thinking that I was ready to move on. But what do you do then? You show up here and I am forced to realize that I will never be over you.”

Suddenly, Clarke notices that her thumb has unconsciously been caressing his jawline for God knows how long. Looking into his eyes, she is easily thrown four years back to them in this exact spot, swaying together as if nothing could ever rip them apart and laughing in the face of the cruel currents that a week later managed to pull her away from him. Now, she has been swept back, right into his arms and her lips meet his like a wave rolling onto the shore.

Its salty water spills on her cheeks as tears. _“I should’ve stayed.”_

_“Does that mean you’re going to now?”_ His lips answer like a flood, desperate to convince her. But she doesn’t need convincing. Even if this could drown her, she is not going to flee again, because every drop is worth it, whether it is a soothing drizzle, a rainstorm or a tidal wave.

 

* * *

 

Later, they are sitting by the lake, eating cold apple pie from paper plates, hands barely touching in the high grass. For a while, they stay silent, stealing glances. Then, she admits how she has spent the last four years looking for his name at the spine of a book, choosing vanilla instead of Red Velvet. And he talks about picking all of the green M&M’s out of the bags and thinking of her every time he saw a pen.

 

Kissing him, Clarke wraps her scarf around his neck and presses play on where the Ipod stops at Train’s Drops of Jupiter.

_Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star–_  
One without a permanent scar?  
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?


End file.
